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Book 135: Stranger In A Strange Land




“She had not thought about it at the time, as she had not believed that anything could happen to Ben. Now she thought about it. There comes a time in the life of every human when he or she must decide to risk ‘his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor’ on an outcome dubious. Jill Boardman encountered her challenge and accepted it at 3:47 that afternoon.”

Dates read: March 21-27, 2017

Rating: 4/10

Lists/Awards: Hugo Award, 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die

Growing up, it’s easy to believe that almost everyone lives more or less the way you do. It’s only as you get older that you start to realize that’s not true. But it’s hard to resist the urge to think of the way you grew up as the right way. But what if it wasn’t just the people in your neighborhood or town that you were comparing yourself to? What if it wasn’t even the same state or country? What if it was a person who came from an entirely different world?

Valentine Michael Smith, the central character of Robert Heinlein’s Stranger In A Strange Land, is an entirely unique person: the son of two space explorers on Mars who died shortly after his birth, he was raised by Martians in Martian culture. As an adult, Mike returns to Earth to explore his “home” planet. Initially hidden away in a hospital by the government, which is trying to figure out what to do with him, he’s discovered by a reporter and smuggled out by a nurse. That nurse, Jill, becomes his constant companion, sheltering and protecting him as he learns about the world and becoming something of a disciple as he comes into his own and begins teaching Martian ways to his friends and, eventually, the world.

Jill and Mike are taken in, after their initial flight from authorities, by author/lawyer/doctor Jubal Harshaw, an older, cynical man who lives in a sprawling compound with three young women he employs as on-call stenographers for his writing and a handyman to keep things in good repair. This group forms the core of what becomes the Church of All Worlds, a religious movement centered on Mike and the teachings he espouses, including the deep significance ascribed to the sharing of water, the concept of “grokking”, and (of course!), non-monogamous sexual relationships. The rise of this church upsets the established power structure of this future Earth, with predictable results for the figure at the center of this upset.

Smith is both human and profoundly non-human, which raises interesting questions about what exactly it means to be a person, a fairly common theme in the science fiction genre. Perhaps because it had been done before, or perhaps because he was disinclined to explore the issue, this is not the route that Heinlein chooses to go. Rather, he uses the story to explore the “Martian” philosophy on life. Which is interesting, for a while. But since the portions of the book that are effectively espousals of this philosophy actually make up a solid majority of the book, with relatively little character development, I found myself getting bored pretty quickly.

The plot is pretty straightforward: it’s a messiah tale, with the kind of story progression you’d expect for this kind of tale. The prose is…not fluid. It’s clunky, and the long passages of expository dialogue aren’t handled with any particular deftness. While it raised some thought-provoking ideas, it never captured me as a piece of literature. I don’t think there’s any reason genre fiction can’t be successful from a literary standpoint, but I never got wrapped up in the story this book was trying to tell me. It may be a sci-fi classic, but it didn’t do it for me. I wouldn’t recommend it.

Tell me, blog friends…what are your favorite genre fiction books?

One year ago, I was reading: The Good German

Two years ago, I was reading: Missing, Presumed

Book 104: The Paper Magician

“From her pocket she pulled a tiny snowflake, the one she had stowed there after her first day as a Folder. She rubbed her thumb over its tiny, delicate cuts, grateful she hadn’t yet washed this particular skirt. The snowflake still felt frosty, just like real snow. Snow he had made for her. All of it had been for her in one way or another, hadn’t it?”

Dates read: November 13-15, 2016

Rating: 5/10

When I was a child, like many other children, I desperately wanted magic to be real. From Tamora Pierce’s Wild Magic series to the J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter, the idea that people could have secret powers inside themselves, just waiting to be harnessed, was, well, enchanting. I kept waiting for my own magic to manifest, because of course if magic were real I was going to be special enough to get it. I think most of us longed for a world where we had extraordinary powers at some point, and that helps explain the enduring popularity of these kinds of stories.

It’s not really clear in Charlie Holmberg’s The Paper Magician if one needs to have been born with magic. Ceony Twill doesn’t seem to have manifested any particular powers from what we learn about her life before attending Tagis Praff School for the Magically Inclined. But she does want to learn magic, and maybe that’s good enough. In the world Holmberg builds, students take the classes they want and experiment and may aspire to a particular kind of magic, but ultimately are bonded to one particular kind of substance through which they can perform it. Ceony longs to be bonded to metal, but instead, because of a lack of paper magicians, she’s sent to Emery Thane, to become his apprentice.

Ceony sulks a little but I was pleasantly surprised at how non-mopey she generally was…it seems like characters like this are usually 100% pro-pity parties. But even though she wishes it hadn’t been so, she dedicates herself to learning the craft of paper magic. She’s settling into a mostly comfortable groove when suddenly she and Emery, on who she is starting to develop a bit of a crush, are brutally attacked by an evil magician, and although she’s been forbidden to, she (of course) adventures to save him. She has to make a journey, both literal and metaphorical, through his heart in order to do so.

The journey through the heart is where most of the character development comes from. It’s in a way a kind of blunt plot device…instead of having to learn things about her Emery’s inner life organically, she’s treated to highlight and lowlight reels of the most sensitive, defining moments of his life. But I think it works, mostly. It not only rounds out his character, but it makes her growing crush seem less like the oh-so-tiresome InstaLove trope. And the system of magic that Holmberg creates for her world is fresh and interesting. But at the end of the day, this isn’t high literature. It’s fluffy, and perfect for the way I read it: on an airplane. Or at a beach. It’s pleasant and light and thinking about it too hard isn’t recommended. There are sequels, but I’m not nearly invested enough to seek them out. If you need something to help pass the time, though, you could do a lot worse.

Tell me, blog friends…were you, too, convinced you had magic inside you as a child?

One year ago, I was reading: The Emigrants 

Two years ago, I was reading: Oriental Mythology

Book 102: What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours



“A key ring gets left in your care and you reject all responsibility for it yet can’t bring yourself to throw it away. Nor can you give the thing away- to whom can someone of good conscience give such an object as a key? Always up to something, stitching paths and gateways together even as it sits quite still; its powers of interference can only be guessed at.”

Dates read: November 6-10, 2016

Rating: 6/10

I don’t know about you, but I am inclined to get stuck in ruts. I have very firm opinions of what I like and what I don’t like, and I tend to stick to those preferences very closely. Sometimes to the point of shutting out trying new things just because I’d rather stick to what I know. I’m bubbly and lively, so I think people assume I’m spontaneous and don’t really realize the extent to which I am actually a die-hard clinger to my established habits.

This extends to my reading…I’m very reluctant to step outside my usual comfort zones of historical and literary fiction or nonfiction. Which is why the first book I read for my book club was a stretch for me: Helen Oyeyemi’s What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours is a collection of short stories. At the time I read it, I didn’t have a single other collection of short stories on my shelf, as it’s not a format I generally enjoy. But we all benefit from a step outside the old comfort zone every once in a while, eh?

Honestly, I found the book more interesting than enjoyable. This is my first taste of Oyeyemi (although her well-regarded Boy, Snow, Bird is on my shelf, I haven’t read it yet) and she’s a powerful, talented writer. Most of the stories (but not all) are loosely interconnected…characters introduced in one have a way of showing up in others, but it’s like a kaleidoscope in a way: the same pieces getting combined in different ways to create a whole new view. The boundaries of the world she creates in each story are all slightly different, so it doesn’t feel cohesive despite the repeating characters and even the repeating motifs.

Possession and belonging, doors and keys, transition and fluidity are all over the stories in What Is Not Yours. Some of the stories really manage to develop these themes in interesting ways that feel complete, but for my money, this was maddeningly inconsistent. There was only one story I didn’t like at all, but several of them felt unfinished and slightly underdone to me. Which is why I don’t usually read short stories…when they’re very good, they’re amazing, but when they are anything less than great I find them mostly frustrating. I like immersing myself in the characters and setting of a book, so I find the constant change in setting and characters that short stories bring to be jarring. Most of the stories in this collection were good but not quite there for me…I wanted more from them, and from this book as a whole.

Tell me, blog friends: do you enjoy short stories?

One year ago, I was reading: this book!

Two years ago, I was reading: Kramer v Kramer

Book 89: The Wolf In The Attic



“I’m getting too big for Pie, Pa says. I like it when he tells me I’m growing up, but I won’t let her go. She’s my best friend, if a friend is someone you can tell things to, and sit quiet with, and hug in the dark of the night. He doesn’t like her. She still has the burn marks on her from that last terrible day, when we were hemmed in between the fire and the sea. The day mama died.”

Dates read: September 14-17, 2016

Rating: 5/10

As I’m writing this (late September 2016), there’s still a lot of rhetoric around refugees…whether they should be resettled here, what kind of security controls there should be, that kind of thing. Allowing anyone to enter the country necessarily comes with some measure of risk and in a world where terrorism is increasingly present in areas where it hasn’t been, I understand the knee-jerk impulse towards fear. But once you start thinking about what it might be like to be a refugee, to be so traumatized and at-risk that you need to leave behind everything you’ve ever known and loved…I personally can’t even imagine going through that. Refugees deserve our sympathy and support.

The refugee experience is a major thread in Paul Kearney’s The Wolf In The Attic. Young Anna Francis left behind her home, her language, whatever might remain of her family, and even her original name behind when she and her father fled Smyrna. They anglicized their name and fled to England, and although Anna’s father has a hard time completely leaving Greece behind, he tries his best to raise Anna like an English girl. We get glimpses at what used to be, a happy and prosperous family of four living by the sea, making the reality of what is seem even harsher in comparison: eating nothing but bread and butter for days at a time to try to scrimp up enough money to stay current on rent, unable to afford properly fitting shoes for Anna, hardly able to keep the fireplace lit for heat in the winter.

Anna is about to become a teenager, but she’s still clinging to childhood (symbolized in the form of a beloved doll, a gift from her long-gone brother, which she keeps close all the time). For me, this is a characterization that works…the experiences she’s suffered through would definitely make one leery of change, of adulthood in all of its complexity. But thrown into adulthood she is when her father dies and she has nowhere to go but the workhouse. Nowhere, that is, but to a band of travelers (they’re not exactly Romani, but a similar kind of idea) that she’d previously met when exploring the woods near her home. This is where the story veers away from a refugee tale and into magical realism, because Anna finds herself drawn into the centuries-long skirmish between her new friends (who are hiding some secrets) and a sect descended from the Druids. There’s even the devil hisownself in the mix for her soul. Where Anna ends up with, and how, make up the balance of the story.

The back half of the story, honestly, was where it lost me. Kearney creates a compelling world for Anna in Oxford…some familiar literary giants even show up, but in a way that I thought was organic and worked naturally within the narrative. The story of Anna and her father and how they got into the circumstances they’re in is well-crafted and heartfelt, and Anna is an easy character to connect with: a pre-teen who is bold and curious but not indomitable, and who finds herself just wrenchingly alone when her father is gone. Her first few encounters with the travelers set the stage well for her to flee to them in her time of need. I actually loved the way her encounters with the Devil were written…eerie and unsettling and emphasizing just how vulnerable she is. But the greater war between the travelers and the Druids, how it all plays out…it just fell totally flat for me. It felt like Kearney didn’t have a great idea for his own backstory and so provided only minimal details in the hopes that the reader would infer a richer background than is there. It’s a promising premise and has merit but is torpedoed by its own last third.

Tell me, blog friends…how do you feel about “famous person” cameos in literature?

One year ago, I was reading: The Lords of Discipline

Book 88: Smoke



“The laws of Smoke are complex. Not every lie will trigger it. A fleeting thought of evil may pass unseen; a fib, an excuse, a piece of flattery. Sometimes you can lie quite outrageously and find yourself spared. Everyone knows the feeling, knows it from childhood: of being questioned by your mother, or your governess, by the house tutor; of articulating a lie, pushing it carefully past the threshold of your lips, your palms sweaty, your guts coiled into knots, your chin raised in false confidence; and then, the sweet balm of relief when the Smoke does not come.”

Dates read: September 10-14, 2016

Rating: 5/10

I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one there whose trust in a person that seemed well-founded turned around and bit them straight in the tuchus. Thankfully, it hasn’t happened to me in a while, but I’m sure we’ve all been burned a time or two by someone who turned out to be not what they seemed. If high school alone doesn’t teach you that nice-seeming people can be actually pretty awful (some of us ourselves had our moments of being pretty awful in high school), life always seems to get around to that one at some point. Wouldn’t it be nice if there was an easy way to tell who was a good person and who wasn’t?

Dan Vyleta’s Smoke presents us with an alternative reality historical fiction. In the novel’s world, during the Middle Ages, humans evolved a gland inside our livers that produces Smoke…actual, literal smoke that escapes the body (mostly through the pores, as well as the mouth and nose) when someone sins. Well, it’s more complicated than that, but that’s how we’re introduced to it anyways. Aristocrats send their offspring to exclusive schools to learn to control their thoughts and feelings and the resultant Smoke, but the cities, like London (in and around which this book is set), are just thick with it.

At first it seems like an English boarding school book: we’re introduced to best friends Charlie and Thomas and resident bully Julius. Thomas and Charlie are a bit of an odd couple: while Charlie is fundamentally decent and well-liked for his openness and good nature, Thomas is proud and defensive, a permanent outsider who can’t get his head around the idea that letting well enough alone might be a virtue. We’re introduced to their professors and other school leadership, and get a sense of the politics of this world, so similar but different than our own. But when the boys go to visit a relative of Thomas’s for Christmas, they find themselves (and Thomas’ cousin, Livia) much, much deeper in complicated moral and theological debates than they ever could have imagined.

Up until about three quarters of the way through the book, I was really liking it. Vyleta builds an intricate world and creates characters who hold our interest (the fact that he rotates perspectives fairly frequently helps keep it fresh and give us new information about the world they live in). But then…it feels like he’s really trying to raise the stakes super high to give us a big dramatic finale, but he raises them so high that it becomes completely over-the-top and any actual emotional impact it might make is blunted. The book has some similarities in concept to Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials series (a longtime favorite of mine), and the ending feels reminiscent in a way, but instead of three books worth of storytelling to get us really invested in the outcome, he tries to shove it all into one. It doesn’t work.

And since I was pulled out of the story at the end by the ridiculous quality it took on, it made me see other plot issues that I’d had issues with. One of the most glaring, to me, was that while there were several references made to Smoke differing in color and quality according to the underlying emotion that produced it, it was never actually laid out what corresponded to what. I had an e-ARC (electronic advanced reader’s copy) so maybe that was changed in the final printing, but I found that personally bothersome. At the end of the day, this is about 75% of a good book but 25% of a pretty bad one. I wouldn’t recommend it, but I wouldn’t warn anyone away from it either.

Tell me, blog friends…does an iffy ending derail a book for you, too?

One year ago, I was reading: Reading Lolita In Tehran

Book 57: The Winged Histories


“I don’t think writing is sorcery, something forbidden. I think it’s more like a comb, it separates your hair more easily than you could with your fingers. It’s like riding a horse to go somewhere instead of walking. You go to the same place, but you can carry more. I think writing is a horse. Or it might be a knife. An axe.”

Dates read: May 29-June 1, 2016

Rating: 8/10

I am nothing if I am not a creature of habit, and one of those habits is that I refuse to jump into a series from anywhere but the beginning. Books, TV, movies…I don’t care if everyone says the first one is bad, boring, or even just not necessary to understand what follows, I read/watch it. Which makes Netflix dangerous for me…so many TV shows to watch right from the beginning! Usually that just means I get choice paralysis and decide to read instead.

Why this particular quirk of mine matters at all is that Sofia Samatar’s The Winged Histories is technically a sequel, though more in a “take place in the same world as” and less “follows directly the characters from”, as I understand. I wanted to read A Stranger In Olondria, but my local library system didn’t have a copy and so I figured that from what I’d read about the book, I’d probably be okay this once not following my own rule and just picking it up. Which I’m kicking myself for now, because I think I would have gotten more out of The Winged Histories if I’d had some background in that world going in.

Which isn’t to say that I didn’t get anything, or even much, out of The Winged Histories without that background. On the contrary, I found the book beautifully written, and once I got myself grounded in its world, incredibly compelling. It follows four women: the warrior Tavis, Tialon, the daughter of a priest, Seren, a singer and Tavis’s lover, and Tavis’s sister Siski, a noblewoman, as the Olodrian empire is engulfed in war and rebellion, both internal and external. They’re besieged by a neighboring civilization, one of their conquered territories is trying to break away, and a new religion is fighting for dominance with the traditional one…with rumors of people transforming into vampiric monsters growing in the countryside.

I don’t usually read war stories, which tend to be men’s stories. Endless descriptions of battles and tactical maneuvers make me lose interest quickly (they slowed down my reading of War and Peace significantly when I tackled that one in the summer of 2015). But this one was different: besides Tavis’s necessarily martial perspective, the rest of the story dug into how the battles resonate far beyond the fields on which they are fought. The lives of each of these women is thrown into turmoil by the unsettled situation of their world: Tavis flees to the army to escape being used as a political pawn in marriage, Tialon suffers at the hands of her religious fanatic father, who ushers in the new religion and converts the emperor, Seren is a member of the people on whose behalf the civil portion of the war is being fought but who suffer for their “victory” as much or more than anyone, and Siski drowns her sorrow at being parted from the sweetheart of her youth in a hard partying lifestyle. These are technically spoilers, but if I hadn’t read a similar summary as I was getting started I would have gotten completely lost in who meant what to whom and what was going on.

It does take a while to get into it and adjust to the setting and situations of the story. Until then, fortunately, the writing sustains interest. The writing is just gorgeous…lush, poetic, and emotionally evocative. There’s very little “this happened, and then that happened” going on here, each of the four segments is written in loose clusters of interconnected plot points, full of flashbacks and questions raised that don’t get answered until a later part of the story. By the end I could barely put it down. The book is a rich reward for a patient reader.

Tell me. blog friends…do you like war stories?

One year ago, I was reading: Hood

**I received a free copy of this book from the publisher, Small Beer Press, through Edelweiss in exchange for a fair and honest review**

Book 45: The Crack In Space

 

“The mind of man was uncommonly stubborn and slow to change. Reformers, including himself, were always prone to forget that. Victory always seemed just around the corner. But generally it was not, after all.”

Dates read: April 23-25, 2016

Rating: 7/10

So remember how I was literally just telling you last week that science fiction isn’t my genre of choice? Here’s another science fiction book! It’s a very different kind of science fiction, though. The Crack In Space mostly falls under the sci-fi label by virtue of its author (Philip K. Dick) and the fact that it’s set in a future world with some advanced technology. It throws out one of those historical what-ifs that I’m so fond of, except way further back then I’d think to go: what if homo sapiens were not the kind of humans that won out evolutionarily?

The Crack in Space posits our world about 2080 (which, at the time it was published, would have been over 100 years in the future): there is severe overpopulation, to the extent that many young people are choosing to be cryogenically frozen until the labor market is better. It’s an election year, and there’s a black presidential nominee for the first time ever. That nominee, Jim Briskin, is struggling in his campaign until he’s tipped off about some major news: there’s been a rift discovered to a whole new world…one that looks like it will support human life. Briskin seizes on this development to announce that it will be his platform to thaw out the frozen and give them this world to settle, and his opponent jockeys to match his promises, when it’s revealed that the new world is populated after all, but not by people as we know them. Instead it’s Peking man that survived. So now what?

That’s maybe half the plot of this slim volume (it’s about 200 pages long), but it’s the main one. First of all, let me say that I’m glad that we beat out Dick’s predictions and had our first black president 75 years ahead of schedule. Moving on from that, though, what I really enjoy about reading Dick’s work is that he poses interesting, thoughtful questions rooted in an understanding of human nature. As much as we might think that if we discovered a parallel Earth we’d learn from our past and thoughtfully go about exploration and potential colonization, the reality is that in an election year, politicians would be falling all over each other to posture and secure an important position for themselves. If the world’s population was so huge that abortion wasn’t just widespread but encouraged, that people were freezing themselves in hopes of a better life someday, it would absolutely end up with people getting sent through the door/portal/whatever without much in the way of an actual plan while news cameras flashed and the powers that be congratulated themselves on a job well done. Maybe I’m a little cynical (I was a litigator and now I’m a lobbyist, so that probably comes with the territory), but I feel like Dick gets how people would actually behave instead of how they’d prefer to imagine they would. I found it a quick and enjoyable read which had me pondering alternate realities.

Tell me, blog friends…if mankind found a new world, would you want to be one of the colonists?

Book 44: Dune



“Somewhere this night he had passed a decision-nexus into the deep unknown. He knew the time-area surrounding them, but the here-and-now existed as a place of mystery. It was as though he had seen himself from a distance go out of sight down into a valley. Of the countless paths up out of that valley, some might carry a Paul Atrides back into sight, but many would not.”

Dates read: April 18-23, 2016

Rating: 6/10

Lists/awards: Hugo Award, NY Times Bestseller

For some reason, I’ve always preferred fantasy to science fiction. They’re similar genres, it’s not for nothing that they’re usually shelved together: new worlds, usually some sort of hero quest narrative, human stories peppered with imaginative twists that let you see them in a new light. If I’m being honest, usually the most significant different on a fundamental level I notice is that if the story is set in space or has robots, it’s science fiction. If there are elves and dragons, it’s fantasy. But even though I know intellectually that the differences between them are as much cosmetic as anything, I’d chose fantasy over sci-fi any day. That being said, one of my all-time favorite books, Do Androids Dream of Electronic Sheep?, is science fiction, and Battlestar Galactica is one of my favorite TV shows. Frank Herbert’s Dune is the best-selling science fiction novel of all time, so I figured I owed it a try.

Dune drops you right into the story without easing you in with world-building before the plot picks up, which I personally found alienating and made it hard for me to get into it from the beginning. It’s the story of a young nobleman, Paul Atrides, whose family is entangled in interplanetary intrigue. The Atrides family is given control of a planet called Dune, notable for being the sole source of a precious substance, the spice melange, which allows people to tap into enhanced mental abilities. When the Atrides are betrayed by their enemies, the Harkonnens, the Duke Leto dies but his consort Jessica and son Paul escape into the desert planet, where Paul (the result of a breeding program by a religious/philosphical/political sect) taps into extraordinary abilities and becomes a religious icon among the native population. Of course, he has vengeance to bring upon the Harokkens and a final battle for power between the families looms.

Having read Joseph Campbell’s Hero With A Thousand Faces, it was pretty easy to recognize Paul’s story as the Hero’s Journey. There’s a reason this particular narrative is so popular across time and cultures: when done well, it’s really compelling. Was this done well? Not especially, but it wasn’t bad or even mediocre. It just didn’t do a lot for me, personally. Like I said, it took me a while to get into it and it’s kind of a space opera…it starts at like a 7 in intensity and waxes and wanes from there, but it’s high drama throughout. I’d have liked a chance to warm up to and get emotionally invested in the characters before they started being put in peril. And on a shallow note about the characters, it bothered me that some of them had fairly standard-issue names: Jessica, Paul, Duncan, even Leto. Then there are some named Thufir, Gurney, and Irulan. I tend to feel like an author should either “go there” with mostly unusual naming patterns or not, but the in-between doesn’t really work.

Once I got about a quarter of the way into it, I got a feel for the world and the novel as a whole and I enjoyed it more, but at the end of the day it wasn’t really for me. Assuming for the sake of argument a continuum from entirely character-driven stories to entirely plot-driven stories, I tend to prefer things on the character side and I’d slot Dune on the plot side. I’m a big movie-watcher when I’m not reading, and there are plenty of movies that I’ve seen that I recognize are high quality, but that I don’t really like. This is the same kind of deal…I can understand why it’s been so popular and sold so well, but I don’t know that I’d read it again or recommend it to anyone.

Book 36: A Calculated Life

 

“And, rejoining the mid-afternoon crowds ambling in the hot spring breeze, she thought about her work colleagues who went back to their own kitchens in their own homes at the end of each day. She wondered if they, too, gave names to all of their meals.”

Dates read: March 27-28, 2016

Rating: 4/10

I get really annoyed by people who smugly insist that they don’t eat GMOs. Literally every food available at the store has been genetically modified. The corn we buy at the supermarket bears precious little resemblance to the corn that European settlers would have seen when they came to the United States for the first time. It’s bigger, sweeter, more robust. How did it get that way? Cross-breeding! Like everything else out there! Which is just a crude form of…wait for it…genetic modification. If no one objects to cross-breeding, which is necessarily a much more blunt form of genetic modification, why object to much more precise changes in the genome? What if we could make tomatoes bigger and more resistant to disease without losing flavor? Who loses?

Where I think the argument gets interesting is when you start to follow the slippery slope down. We’ve already made significant genetic modifications (again, through cross-breeding) to our domestic animals. What if we decided to start tinkering with people? It might start out with someone totally benign, like neutralizing the BRCA genes and sparing thousands of women the agonizing choice between their reproductive organs and almost certain cancer. Eradicating Tay-Sachs, Parkinson’s. But what about other genetically-related syndromes? What about dwarfism? Down Syndrome? Some forms of deafness that are genetically linked? We start staring down an uncomfortably eugenicist barrel.

A future like this is where we find ourselves in Anne Charnock’s A Calculated Life. It’s the future and there are three kinds of people: organics (totally normal people except with genetic altering to prevent most diseases and addictions), bionics (given an implant that dramatically increases mental performance), and simulants (humans “born” as adults with incredibly powerful cognitive capacity, basically robots in human bodies). Simulants, like our main character Jayna, live in communal compounds and are leased to their employers for large sums of money, collecting only a small allowance of their own. Jayna and her friends are a second generation of simulant designed to be more “lifelike” than the first, who had no real personalities. Amid worrying reports that the simulants are starting to act, well, more like people, Jayna finds herself convinced that learning more about non-simulants in their natural environment will help her be better at her job (predictive trend analysis) and starts to reach out beyond the borders of the world she’s always known.

It’s pretty easy to see where the story is going when it starts to go out of its way to bring up Jayna’s interesting, good-hearted organic coworker Dave. Obviously, they’re going to fall for each other and Consequences Will Ensue. I think I’ve mentioned before that I’m not at all put off by spoilers, because I feel like they shed light on lazy writing (if all your story has is the twist, it doesn’t have anything), so having a good idea of how the plot would turn out wasn’t the problem. The problem is that it didn’t get there in any sort of interesting or exciting way. Jayna and Dave are never more than thin sketches of characters and their world doesn’t have much richness or detail. It feels like a mishmash of 1984 and Do Androids Dream of Electronic Sheep? except without the incisive social insight of either. It’s not egregiously bad, just aggressively mediocre.

Tell me, blog friends…do you care about GMOs?

Book 29: American Gods

 

“There are stories that are true, in which each individual’s tale is unique and tragic, and the worst of the tragedy is that we have heard it before and we cannot allow ourselves to feel it too deeply. We build a shell around it, like an oyster dealing with a painful particle of grit, coating it with smooth pearl layers in order to cope. This is how we walk and talk and function, day in, day out, immune to others’ pain and loss. If it were to touch us it would cripple us or make saints of us; but, for the most part, it does not touch us. We cannot allow it to.” 

Dates read: March 8-12, 2016

Rating: 8/10

Awards/Lists: NY Times Bestseller, Hugo Award

I’m an atheist. I was going to soften that a little, say that I’m agnostic, but when push comes to shove, I don’t believe in god(s). I respect that other people do, and on some level I wish I did. It must come with a measure of comfort to feel like that there’s a greater plan for us and what feel like personal setbacks to you are a part of that plan, that a higher power wouldn’t give you obstacles to overcome that you weren’t capable of handling. But when I search my heart I know that I don’t.

Virtually every culture, around the world and across time, has some kind of religious/mythological belief system. Where did we come from? How are we to live? Those basic questions gave rise to hundreds, even thousands, of myths to give the answers (see: the entire Masks of God series I spent months of my life reading). In an anthropological/psychological sense, God did not create man. Man created the gods. And in Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, we didn’t just create them as concepts in the sky; they are corporeal beings and they need us, our prayers and our tributes, to thrive. But we as Americans haven’t been giving them what they need for a long time now. What idols do we regard with something close to reverence today? TVs. Our phones. Our computers. And that has given rise to new gods in competition for our devotion with the old ones.

In its central and most straightforward plot line, American Gods follows Shadow Moon, a convict released from prison at the very beginning of the novel, and his work with the mysterious Mr. Wednesday to round up the old gods to do battle against the new in a final battle. But this isn’t a straightforward novel, and its reach expands far beyond the basic premise. Gaiman explores the history of the gods, explaining how they got to the United States in the first place…from prehistoric travel across the land bridge over the Bering Straight, to the Vikings, to the slave trade and more. He shows us how these neglected gods survive in the real world: Bilquis, the Queen of Sheba, is a prostitute, and Thoth and Anubis have set up shop as undertakers for the minority community in a small town in Illinois. There’s a short story within the novel of a gay Arab man, trying desperately to sell his brother-in-law’s trinkets to distributors in New York City, and his encounter with an ifrit. There’s a subplot about an idyllic small town in Wisconsin and how it stays prosperous and comfortable even while surrounding communities suffer. Gaiman has created a rich and thick and layered experience to read and absorb.

So why not a more glowing review, a higher rating? Well, as much as I appreciated it, I didn’t connect with it very much. Shadow, our main character, is a cipher who neither speaks particularly often or has an especially rich inner life. And it makes sense, for who he’s supposed to be: the only son of a peripatetic single mother who never had many friends growing up, who’s spent a few years in the clink and loses the person closest to him right from the start. Why wouldn’t he be withdrawn and closed off? Left alone in the world, why wouldn’t he practice coin tricks instead of losing himself in his thoughts? But as much as I understand the characterization, it keeps the book at a distance, at least at first. As it moved along I got more swept up in it, but it still didn’t quite click. It’s actually a book I think would improve on re-read…now that I know what’s coming and how it all plays out, I’d like to go back and start it from the beginning. Not right now. But eventually.

Tell me, blog friends: do you re-read often?

Note: Review cross-posted at Cannonball Read

Book 28: Dead Ever After


“I’d never imagined feeling this way, but I couldn’t handle this emotional jerking around. I’d start to feel okay, then I’d get poked in the sore spot, like taking a scab off my knee when I was a kid. In books, the hero was gone after the big blowup. He didn’t stick around in the vicinity, doing mysterious shit, sending messages to the heroine by a third party. He hauled his ass into oblivion. And that was the way things should be, as far as I was concerned. Life should imitate romance literature far more often.”

Dates Read: March 6-8, 2016

Rating: 6/10

I can’t remember exactly when it was that I started watching True Blood, but I do remember it was with my sister, on her laptop. She told me I just had to watch it  and we binged the first three or four episodes in a row…each episode ended with a cliffhanger so the lure of another one was hard to resist. After I watched the first season or two, I got curious about the books they were based on, so I picked up a copy of Dead Until Dark, the first in the series. Just like the show, I was hooked. I devoured the available books and read each one as they came out until the last one in 2013. I was in the middle of my first legislative session and busy, and then I kept telling myself I could read Dead Ever After any old time, that I should read the more Serious Literature I had accumulated first. So that’s why it’s three years later and I’m just now catching up.

My preferred genres to read tend to be contemporary and historical fiction…romance, especially paranormal romance, isn’t really up my alley at all (with the exception of the Twilight series). So I was surprised by how much I really enjoy reading Charlaine Harris’ Southern Vampire Mysteries series, but enjoy it I do. For those who watched the show, Sookie Stackhouse in the books is a different (and much more compelling) character than she is on TV, so if you’re thinking you might not want to read these because Sookie annoys you, don’t let that keep you away. Book Sookie is stronger, sassier, more independent. She does have the same kind of improbable love life (even more suitors in the books than the show, actually), but hey, it’s a romance series.

Harris has stated that she ended the series, which was still quite popular, because (to paraphrase) she was just not really feeling it anymore. And to be honest, it’s pretty obvious over the course of the last three or four books that her interest was waning. The “mystery” at the center of the story doesn’t build a ton of tension, but it serves okay as a framing device. There was a lot of storyline tying up going on here, and token final appearances by Sookie’s exes…it very much feels like a “farewell” to the series.

As for the final resolution of Sookie’s love life, I know a lot of fans pitched a fit at who she ends up with, and while that wasn’t my personal OTP for this series, it’s Harris’ story to tell and I didn’t feel like it came out of left field or anything like that. It’s hard to evaluate the final book in a series on its own merits. You can take it on its own to a certain extent, but it’s inextricably (to me, at least) tied in with how you feel about the entire series and how the whole story was told. In the end, I feel like my fondness for the series is likely overshadowing the weaknesses of this individual volume. I did really like reading these books, and I’d recommend them even for those who don’t usually dabble in this genre. They’re quick and entertaining, and I think of them kind of as literary snacks, like maybe a Hostess cupcake or something. Not a lot of nutritional value or lasting fullness there, but every once in a while it’s a fun way to indulge a little.

Tell me, blog friends…what books that you’ve picked up outside of your usual reading niche have surprised you in a good way?

Note: Review cross-posted at Cannonball Read

Book 4: Gilded

“We are given moments, and we must choose what to do with them. This is your moment.”

Dates read: October 18-20, 2015

Rating: 2/10

I’m a sucker for young adult lit, and young adult fantasy in particular has a soft spot in my heart (Tamora Pierce’s Wild Magic books, for example, are such favorites of mine that I recently replaced my long-lost childhood copies). So when I was shopping through the Kindle sale section and saw Gilded, I thought it seemed like a great fit for my tastes.

And it promised to be based in mythology! I’m a big mythology nerd and have been since I was a kid (my mom got me this book called Greek Myths for Young Children and it was my favorite thing and I still remember it fondly to this day), but I’ve never been exposed to the Korean mythology background indicated as a basis for the story, so I thought it would be a good chance to learn about that too.

As the rating shows, though, it was a huge disappointment. The book follows the story of teenage Jae Hwa, a Korean girl raised for most of her life in the United States and recently returned to Korea after the death of her mother. Her grandfather is very unhappy to see her, which she assumes to be because he doesn’t like his Americanized granddaughter, but turns out to be because as a female born into her father’s family, she will be ruthlessly pursued by a demigod until he can pull her into his dimension and imprison her for all eternity.

There’s good stuff to work with her: grief for her mother, being torn between cultures, an exciting adventure in another world…and that’s on top of the usual high-school plotlines (first love, friendships, coming of age, etc ) that have driven plenty of YA novels for ages. But nothing really works. The loss of her mother and her dual cultural identities are referenced often, but without any real exploration of them…she just notes that she’s sad, or that she’s confused, and it completely vanishes until she sees fit to mention it again. Her love interest has two identifying traits: he’s cute, and he’s really smart/education/good at everything. Of course he likes her too, so their only stumbling block is that she’s constantly shoving him away because she wants to protect him from getting caught up in her destiny. Which is noble enough the first time, but gets tiresome long before the end of the book. As do her constant interactions with her divine pursuer, who keeps pulling her into his world to remind her he’s going to do so permanently…and then she escapes. Again. And again. I was relieved when I got to the end. The book feels like a first draft of something better.

Tell me, blog friends…what did you read recently that was disappointing?

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